


Employer of the Year; or, The Further Adventures of Mickey Milkovich, Power Bottom

by skepwith



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Handcuffs, Highly Inaccurate Portrayal of Police Work, Humor, M/M, role-playing, transactional sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 09:05:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2646191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skepwith/pseuds/skepwith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey sticks his neck out for the rub n’ tug and discovers a new kink, which Ian is more than happy to indulge.</p><p> </p><p>Mickey grabbed Svetlana’s elbow and marched her out of earshot. “Will you let me fucking handle this?” he said.</p><p>She jerked her elbow out of his grip. “You are not handling! Free blow job is obvious answer.”</p><p>“Yeah, except he’s fucking gay, so he’s not fucking interested!”</p><p>She took another look at the cop. “Gay?”</p><p>“Yes!”</p><p>Without missing a beat, she said, “So you give him blow job.”</p><p>Mickey felt his eyebrows climb all the way up his forehead. “Excuse me?”</p><p>“What?” she sneered. “You are better than rest of us?”</p><p>“Okay,” he said slowly. “Let me explain to you how this works. Me pimp, you whore. Understand?”</p><p>Svetlana looked, as always, supremely unimpressed. “So you have money for license?”</p><p>“Fuck!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Employer of the Year; or, The Further Adventures of Mickey Milkovich, Power Bottom

Mickey was on his way to the Alibi when his cheap piece-of-shit phone began beeping its stupid ring tone. He dug it out of the pocket of his jeans and checked the caller: Kev. Shit.

Ian had woken him earlier with a rise-and-shine hummer, which led to a thorough ass-fucking, the aftereffects of which he could still feel with every step. (Not that he was complaining.) Ian had gotten up long enough to take his meds and then rolled himself back into the blanket with a smug grin; the bastard didn’t have to be at work till evening. All of which was to say that it wasn’t Mickey’s fault he was running late.

He answered the phone with an irritated “I’m on my way, okay?”

“Shut up, that’s not why I’m calling,” said Kev. He sounded panicked. “There’s a couple of cops here asking to see a business license for the rub n’ tug. I think that asshole over at the Anchor ratted us out. He’s probably pissed because I stole all three of his regulars, which, by the way, is his own fault for playing that fucking awful music all the time.”

Mickey paused on the sidewalk and fished his lighter and smokes out of his pocket. “Just have the girls give them a freebie. I really gotta tell you this? Were you born yesterday?” He rolled his eyes as he lit up, pinning the phone against his ear with one shoulder.

“That’s the first thing I tried, genius! They said no. So I offered them fifty bucks—discreetly, you know—but they wouldn’t take that either. What the fuck is up with that?”

“Huh,” said Mickey, exhaling smoke.

“We’re fucked, man. You have any idea how much a business license costs?”

“No.”

“A fuck of a lot more than I’ve got, that’s how much! And even if we could get a license, the last thing we need is inspectors sniffing around, asking about green cards and asbestos and who the fuck knows what else!”

“Okay, okay, keep your ponytail on! I’ll be there in five.”

Mickey pushed open the door to an unusually quiet Alibi Room, where two uniforms were standing in front of the bar with their arms folded. The senior partner, whose name tag said O’Leary, nodded at him. Mickey felt a jolt of recognition. No wonder the freebie offer hadn’t flown.

“Hey, man,” said Mickey in his best attempt at a friendly voice. “How’s your husband, uh, Miguel?”

“Carlos.”

“Yeah. Right.”

Behind the bar, Kev was gaping like a village idiot. That was Kev for you: smooth as fucking gravel.

“He’s fine,” said O’Leary. “Thanks for asking. How are things with Gallagher? You two still together?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we’re good.” Jesus, he was making gay small talk with a cop. He glanced at the other one, a black guy with a lame-ass mustache and a spare tire from too many donuts. His name tag said Carter. “So, uh... what seems to be the problem, officers?”

“As I was explaining to your business partner here, we just need to see a license for the massage parlor upstairs.”

“Sure, yeah, no problem.” Fuck. Maybe if he could get the guy by himself, he could milk the gay solidarity thing they seemed to have going on. Or at least offer him a bigger bribe. “We got it upstairs. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

As soon as the girls upstairs caught a glimpse of uniform, they started scattering like a herd of fucking wildebeests when a lion turns up at the watering hole. “Hey, calm the fuck down!” Mickey shouted at them. “Get back in here!” Nanook was already halfway onto the fire escape. “Get. Back. In. Side,” he growled.

They returned slowly, one eye on the cops. You’d think they didn’t trust his judgement or something. “Get back to your, uh, massages,” he ordered. “Go!” The girls withdrew behind their makeshift curtains, shooting him scowls and muttered Russian curses. Did all whores have this much attitude, or just his?

He turned back to O’Leary, trying to ignore Svetlana looming over his shoulder. “Thing is,” he said, scratching his eyebrow with a thumbnail, “I don’t actually have the license on me right now.”

“You’re supposed to display it on the premises within easy view.”

“Yeah, I know, but... Look, could you maybe just take my word for it?”

The cop actually looked regretful as he said, “Sorry, but the phone call’s been logged. We have to file a report now, and if there’s any irregularities it would look bad for us.”

From behind him Svetlana piped up, “We give you blow job for free.”

Mickey grabbed her elbow ungently and marched her out of earshot. “Will you let me fucking handle this?” he said.

She jerked her elbow out of his grip. “You are not handling! Free blow job is obvious answer.”

“Yeah, except he’s fucking gay, so he’s not fucking interested!”

She took another look at O’Leary. “Gay?”

“Yes!”

Without missing a beat, she said, “So _you_ give him blow job.”

Mickey felt his eyebrows climb all the way up his forehead. “ _Excuse me?_ ”

“What?” she sneered. “You are better than rest of us?”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Let me explain to you how this works. Me pimp, you whore. Understand?”

Svetlana looked, as always, supremely unimpressed. “So you have money for license?”

“Fuck!”

He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. His stomach had that sinking feeling that meant things were not about to go his way. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “Fine!” he snarled at last. “Fucking _fine!_ ”

He stomped back to where he’d left the cops. O’Leary was staring at the peeling paint while Carter squished a roach daintily under the toe of his shoe. “Okay,” said Mickey, “blow job on the house. That’s the best I can do.”

O’Leary’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Um, you know I’m gay, right? This isn’t really my kind of—”

“Not _them_ ,” said Mickey, rolling his eyes. “Me. I’ll do it.” He bit his lip nervously.

The cop just stared at him. “Uh...”

No way. No fucking way was this middle-aged doughboy about to turn him down. He folded his arms, incidentally showing off his biceps, and raised his eyebrows provocatively. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

O’Leary cleared his throat and said, “What about my partner?” The other cop, Carter, had taken off his hat and was fiddling with the visor, not looking at either of them.

“He can have his pick of the girls,” said Mickey.

O’ Leary shook his head. “He’s gay too.”

“He’s— ?” Mickey looked incredulously from one to the other. “What, does the Chicago PD put all the fags together or something?”

They both looked back at him like he was stupid. “Yes.”

Wasn’t that just fucking peachy. Throwing up his hands, he said “Well, shit, I guess I’m doing him, too! Why the hell not? The more the fuckin’ merrier!” He needed a drink. He needed a lot of drinks. Instead, he gestured to an empty massage table, half-visible behind a sagging curtain made out of sheets. “After you.”

“Not at the same time!” he snarled, as they both made to go in at once. Jesus! He pointed at O’Leary. “You first! You,” he pointed at Carter, “wait out here.” The junior cop shuffled back to the wall and returned to examining his hat.

Once he’d twitched the curtain back and forth a few times, trying to get it to cover the whole opening before giving up, he turned to where O’Leary was lying back gingerly on the table. The cop held his hat on his chest like he was getting ready to be buried. He looked at Mickey and said, “I don’t usually do this.”

“Listen, we can chitchat or I can blow you. What’s it gonna be?”

O’Leary pressed his lips shut.

“Thought so,” said Mickey, going to work on his belt buckle.

When he got the guy’s dick out, he was pleasantly surprised to find it was not at all bad-looking: clean, thick, and surprisingly dark. After a few pumps with his hand it was rarin’ to go, leaning a little off to the left like a dog straining at its leash. He took the whole thing at once, sinking down until pubes were tickling his nose. O’Leary made a sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper, and Mickey smirked—or did the closest thing to smirking he could with his lips wrapped around a cock. He set up an easy rhythm, bobbing smoothly up and down and sliding his tongue all the way around the head with each pass. At the same time, he pinned the cop’s hips down to keep him from getting any dumb ideas. O’Leary didn’t seem to mind: when Mickey glanced up, he was red-faced and wheezing like a beached whale. Shit, he wasn’t going to have a heart attack, was he?

He moaned again when Mickey picked up the pace, keen to hurry things along. Not that giving the cop head had turned out to be such a hardship (and, okay, he may have been just the teeniest bit into it), but he had things to do. Like the other cop. He increased his suction and slipped a hand under the guy’s sack, gently rubbing a thumb over his balls. O’Leary’s hips twitched frantically and with a drawn-out groan he came like gangbusters down Mickey’s throat. Damn, how long since the guy had gotten his rocks off? Maybe Carlos was holding out on him, punishing him for forgetting to clean up the dog shit in the yard or something. When the guy was finished, Mickey pulled off with a wet pop and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. One down, one to go.

Pushing aside the curtain, he was surprised to see Svetlana waiting with a glass of beer. She handed it to him without a word, and he knocked back half in one gulp before handing it back. “Next!” he barked. O’Leary shuffled out past him, ducking under the curtain string while trying to do up his belt at the same time. His face was still flushed under his hat, and he was smiling goofily.

After O’Leary had vacated the premises, his partner took his place. Carter used his hand to brush off the table before he lay down on it. Mickey rolled his eyes.

“My name’s Charlie,” he said.

“Whatever.”

Mickey made quick work of his buckle, button, and zipper, releasing what was well on its way to becoming an impressive erection. “I gotta say, Chuck,” he said, quirking an eyebrow down at the cop, “you’re not exactly busting any stereotypes, here.”

Carter looked embarrassed. “You don’t have to— Uh, I mean, you can use your hand—”

Please! As if he couldn’t handle it! Mickey felt affronted by the very suggestion. Now, the first time he’d gone down on Ian, that had been a challenge. He never would have done it if Ian hadn’t given him an ultimatum. In his mind, there had been a line between cocksuckers and non-cocksuckers, and it was a line he’d told himself he’d never cross. But. “Suck my dick,” Ian had said. “Whenever I want,” he’d said. And Mickey’s resistance had crumbled, like it always did when it came to Ian. He might’ve even been glad to have a reason not to say no—though he hadn’t admitted that to himself till later.

It was harder than he thought (no pun intended). Not that he didn’t already love the look and feel of Ian’s cock: the way the tip flushed a dark pink that stood out against his pale freckled skin and clashed with the copper thatch below; the silky texture of it in his hand; the smell—fuck, he loved the way it smelled. And when he licked its weeping slit he loved the way it tasted, too.

He just couldn’t get his mouth around the damn thing. He stretched his lips wide, careful to keep his teeth covered, and shoved as much into his mouth as he could before gagging.

“Jesus, Mick, breathe!” said Ian, half-laughing. “And slow down before you kill yourself!”

Mickey glared at him, but he backed off and tried again, more slowly this time.

“That’s it,” said Ian breathlessly. He was watching Mickey with dark eyes and parted lips. Fucking beautiful, thought Mickey.

He kept slowly taking him deeper, until Ian’s breath hitched and his eyes slid shut. Damn, Mickey could get used to this. Then the head hit the back of his throat and he swallowed convulsively. Ian made a strangled noise. He managed to look down and gasp, “You okay?” but Mickey refused to back off. He had this, dammit! After blinking his streaming eyes and breathing carefully through his nose for a minute, he felt his throat relax enough to keep going.

It took forever, and he came close to gagging several more times, but he finally—finally!—got the whole thing down. If he could have, he’d have done a little victory dance on the spot. Instead he looked triumphantly up at Ian, and saw Ian’s face slack with lust and awe. “Fuck, Mickey,” he whispered. “You look so hot right now. You don’t even know— ah!”

The words went straight to his stiffening dick, and he may have moaned a little around Ian’s cock. He started moving up and down, trying to use his tongue in the same ways Ian had on him. Soon he felt he was getting the hang of it, licking and sucking enthusiastically, slobber and pre-come dripping down his chin. His own cock was throbbing uncomfortably in his jeans; he pressed on it with the heel of his hand, while continuing to lavish attention on Ian’s deliciously swollen dick.

Ian choked back a groan and dug his fists into the blanket. He was biting his lip, trying to stay quiet, but little words kept slipping out, like _oh_ and _God_ and _fuck_ and _Mickey_. Each one made Mickey suck harder. He wanted Ian to lose control, to let his hips thrust upward, to grab him by the hair. The thought made him groan, and that must have sent Ian over the edge, because he tensed with a grunt and then his cock was pulsing, sending spurts of come down Mickey’s throat and into his mouth.

He choked on it, of course, and then coughed till his eyes ran.

“Sorry, sorry!” slurred Ian. “Should’ve warned you.” He was leaning back on his elbows, panting, and his t-shirt had ridden up to his belly button. A gleaming line of golden-red hairs ran down to the bush above his softening cock. Mickey couldn’t take his eyes off it. He fumbled open his jeans with one hand and nose-dived onto the shivering white skin of Ian’s belly, licking it like ice cream. Ian buried a hand in Mickey’s hair and stroked his head while Mickey beat himself off. He came almost at once, face buried in the crinkly hairs of Ian’s happy trail.

He sat on the floor, leaning against Ian’s knee, while his breath slowly returned to normal. He could hear Ian’s breath doing the same as he lay back on the bed, the fingers of one hand resting against the back of Mickey’s head, as if by accident. One phrase kept repeating itself in his head, in time with his slowing pulse: _Whenever I want_.

One thing seemed sure: there was going to be a lot more cocksucking in Mickey’s future.

Oh, boy!

Inside his cubicle in the rub n’ tug, Mickey finished off the second cop without any trouble. At one point Carter had reached for Mickey’s head, but Mickey had smacked his hand away smartly and the guy had withdrawn it with a hasty “Sorry.” He’d grabbed the table edge instead, and a minute later he came with a hoarse shout. Mickey eased him through it and licked up every drop—for neatness’s sake.

Carter sat up slowly and put himself back together with a dazed look on his face. He stood, putting on his cap, then turned to Mickey and said, “Thank you very much, sir.”

“Uh, sure,” said Mickey, wincing at how raspy and fucked-out his voice sounded. He waited until the cop had left, then took a minute to adjust his half-chub. When he swept aside the curtain, he was met with a round of applause from the gathered girls and one confused-looking john.

“Yeah, you’re all fucking hilarious!” he rasped at them. They just smirked. “Breathe one word of this to anyone, and you’re out on the street, understand?” Where the fuck was his beer? Svetlana was holding it. He downed the rest and handed the empty glass back to her, growling, “That goes for you too.” She just pursed her lips and hoisted an eyebrow at him. Fucking whores. He should’ve stuck with drugs and guns—the easy stuff.

Downstairs, everyone had gone back to drinking as usual. Kev was wiping down the bar; he spotted Mickey and beckoned him over. “Hey, those cops just left with big smiles on their faces. What did you do to turn ’em so sweet?”

“Never mind,” said Mickey, swinging his leg over a bar stool. “I took care of it.”

“But how much do I owe you?”

“I said I took care of it! That’s all you need to know.” Mickey punctuated his words with an end-of-fucking-discussion scowl, and after a few minutes Kev shrugged and let it drop. Mickey blew out a slow breath. With any luck, the subject would be dead from now on.

His relief lasted all of ten seconds before he heard the _tap tap_ of Svetlana’s boots behind him. Squeezing herself between two stools, she slid an armful of empty beer glasses across the bar. “Thanks,” said Kev, grabbing the glasses and slotting them into the washer. Svetlana nodded and lit up a smoke, glancing at Mickey. As she exhaled, she said, “Girls are all talking about you.”

“I don’t care,” said Mickey forcefully. Subtext: Shut the fuck up, Sveta.

She leaned an elbow carelessly on the bar. “You are impressing them with your technique. Me, I am not surprised. I have seen you sucking off orange boy in kitchen.”

Kev’s eyes darted back and forth between them. Watching his thoughts come together was like watching clothes settle in a tumble dryer. “You blew a _cop_?” he blurted.

“Jesus, Kev, could you say that a little fucking louder? And you,” he snapped at his wife, “get back upstairs!”

She narrowed her eyes at him but did as she was told, tossing a parting shot over her shoulder as she went: “Was _two_ cops.”

Mickey turned back to the bar to find Kev filling a shot glass with Jack. He set the bottle down next to it and said, “It’s all yours. Have as much as you want, on the house.”

“Seriously?”

“What you did was above and beyond the call of duty, man. You totally saved our asses. I owe you big time.”

Kev’s sincerity was making him uncomfortable. “It’s okay,” he mumbled. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I mean it, man. I won’t forget it.”

“Kev. _Please_ forget it.”

* * *

“You okay?”

“Huh? Yeah, I’m fine.” Mickey was sitting on the couch, tucked snugly into Ian’s shoulder while they watched Daniel Craig blow shit up on TV. He was comfortable with this kind of overt girly cuddling shit now, because he was an adult in an adult relationship. Also, there was no one else home.

A helicopter exploded on-screen and Daniel Craig shot some dudes. Next to him, he could feel Ian sneaking glances his way, like he was checking on him or something. After a minute or two of this, he couldn’t take it anymore. “The fuck you keep looking at me for?”

“I heard what happened at the Alibi, Mickey. With the cops.”

Mickey shot up straight and turned to face Ian, fuming. “Did fucking Svetlana tell you? I’m gonna fucking kill her!”

“No! No, Fi told me.”

“Fiona? How...?”

Ian shrugged apologetically. “You know how Kev tells V everything—”

Mickey groaned. “And V tells Fiona everything. Yeah, I get it. Buncha fucking blabbermouths.”

“So...” Ian was staring at him with that little crease between his eyebrows.

“So what?”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Fuck no!”

Ian huffed an exasperated sigh. “Mickey, I know how you keep stuff inside. I just want to be sure you’re okay.”

Ever since Ian had started seeing a therapist for the bipolar thing, he had this annoying tendency to want to _talk_ about everything. He wouldn’t push, he’d just keep working at Mickey until he wore him down, like Chinese water torture.

“I’m fine!” said Mickey. He could feel his face getting hot. “It’s not— I’m not, like, traumatized, okay? I’m just embarrassed.”

“Oh.” Ian settled a hand on the side of Mickey’s neck, stroking the skin absently with his thumb. Ian was always doing that kind of thing—touching him with a casual affection that made him feel all warm inside. He didn’t know how Ian did it so easily, like it was natural; Mickey was more of a fight-or-fuck kind of guy. It no longer took him ten minutes to work up the nerve to hold Ian’s hand, but it still wasn’t something he just did without thinking. He kind of envied Ian that way.

The stroking was so soothing, he almost missed Ian’s follow-up. “You mean embarrassed like ashamed? ’Cause you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

“What? No, I know!” He stared down at his knuckles and muttered, “I didn’t really mind that much, actually.”

Ian paused. “Did you... like it?”

“No! ...Okay, maybe a little bit.” God, he must really be red now: his face felt like it was on fire. “Not the guys, but, you know, the situation, kind of.” He risked a glance up through his eyelashes. Ian didn’t look disgusted or angry, just thoughtful.

Mickey tried to hide his relief. “Are we done now? Can we watch the fucking movie?”

“Sure,” said Ian easily, tucking Mickey back under his arm. Mickey made a few more grumpy noises, for form’s sake, but mostly he was just glad they were done with the whole topic.

He should be so fucking lucky.

About a week later he was at the Alibi, willing the night’s last customers to drink up and fuck off. Most of the girls had already gone home, and he was just waiting for Kev to flip the Open sign to Closed so he could take off.

“Hey, can you stay a couple minutes after we close and help me move some kegs?” said Kev from where he was upending chairs onto tables.

“Fuck that! It’s Ian’s night off.”

Kev laughed. “Understood. Have a good one, Mick.”

He was a little disappointed not to find Ian waiting for him at the door. “Hey, Ian!” he called out, shrugging off his hoodie. Nika poked her head out of Svetlana’s bedroom and hissed, “Baby is sleeping, _durak!_ ” before disappearing back inside. From his own bedroom, he heard Ian’s muffled voice: “In here!”

He stepped through the doorway and stopped. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

Ian looked down at himself. “I got it from a guy at work. I think it’s a stripper costume; it’s got velcro in the seams.”

“You look fucking ridiculous.” The badge was clearly plastic, and no real uniform was ever that tight. It strained across Ian’s shoulders and clung to the muscles in his thighs.

Ian saw him staring and smirked. “I thought you liked me in uniform,” he said, sauntering up to Mickey until they were inches apart.

Mickey grinned up at him. “I like you in everything, dumbass.” He grabbed Ian’s head and pulled him into a kiss, pushing insistently into his mouth. Ian responded hungrily, stroking and sucking on Mickey’s tongue, while his hands slid down Mickey’s back and firmly palmed his ass.

They broke apart, panting heavily, then kissed again, more slowly this time. Mickey cupped Ian’s face while he sucked on his lower lip, dragging his teeth across it. Ian licked into Mickey’s mouth and slid a hand slowly along his arm, making all the hairs stand on end. His long fingers enfolded Mickey’s where they rested against Ian’s cheek. The only sounds were their heavy breaths and the slick, wet noises of their kisses.

The next time they broke apart, Ian’s grip tightened on Mickey’s wrist, and suddenly he was being flipped around and pressed face-first onto the bed. “Hey! What the fuck are you doing?”

Ian’s knee was in the small of his back, not pressing hard enough to hurt, just enough to keep him pinned. “I’m placing you under arrest,” he said. Mickey could hear the smile in his voice. This was fucking stupid. So why was he so hard? He wriggled against the mattress, which didn’t dislodge Ian at all but did make his hard-on that much worse. He felt something close around his wrist and heard a sharp _snick_. Was that...?

“Are those _handcuffs?_ ” _Snick_. His other wrist was restrained. He tested the cuffs—they seemed pretty flimsy; he could probably break them if he had to. Probably. He opened his mouth to say he wasn’t the kind of weirdo who was into this shit, but his dick apparently hadn’t got the memo, and he ended up making a stupid whimpering noise instead. Ian chuckled, and Mickey squirmed with embarrassment and arousal. Fuck, he was painfully hard.

Ian stood back, releasing him, and Mickey managed to twist around and slide down the end of the bed until he was on his knees on the floor. Now he was eye-to-eye with a navy-blue-polyester bulge. He looked up, raising one eyebrow. Ian’s face was flushed, his lips pink and swollen, and his short hair stuck up crazily. Mickey grinned, licking his lips. “This getting you hot, tough guy?”

“Yeah, almost as hot as it’s getting you.”

Oh, it was _on!_ Mickey thrust his face into Ian’s crotch, taking a deep breath of the glorious smell that was Ian and sex. If they could bottle that shit, he’d huff it like paint thinner. He mouthed his hard length through the fabric, sucking with his lips and scraping lightly with his teeth in a way that made Ian shudder. When he backed off a few minutes later, he was surprised to see how big a damp patch he’d left—until he realized at least half of it was from Ian’s leaking cock.

What little patience he had flew right out the window at the sight. “C’mon, man,” he said desperately. “Help me out, here. I can’t use my hands.” His voice sounded hoarse and needy.

“Yeah,” said Ian roughly, and started tugging clumsily at the pants.

“Hurry up!” said Mickey, biting his lips with impatience.

“I’m _trying!_ These fucking—” Finally the things gave way with a tearing sound, and Ian was naked from the waist down. No underwear. Mickey made a little keening noise. He got his mouth on Ian’s cock as fast as he could, licking his way up the underside before sucking the head into his mouth and tonguing the drooling slit.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Ian moaned.

Next Mickey moved down to his sack, suckling gently at each ball in turn. When they were thoroughly wet, he took both in his mouth at once and sucked firmly. Ian gave a soft cry. He sucked them for a bit longer, then licked his way back up to Ian’s cock. Opening his jaw, Mickey took him down all the way, humming with contentment.

“Yeah, like that,” whispered Ian. “God, _Mickey_.”

Mickey drew back, swirled his tongue, and plunged again. And again. Ian’s fingers curled into his hair, tugging lightly. Mickey moaned. Ian rocked his pelvis forward, and it was so good, but still not enough. Backing off until only a gleaming string connected his mouth and Ian’s cock, Mickey looked up at him and rasped, “ _More. Harder._ ”

Ian looked down at him, glassy-eyed, his pupils huge. “You want me to fuck your face,” he said in a low voice.

Mickey nodded.

“Yeah, okay.”

This time, when Mickey took him in his mouth, Ian tightened his hands on the back of his head and thrust roughly down his throat. Mickey moaned helplessly, his eyelids fluttering. Fuck, this was so, so— Ian thrust again, hard and fast, and all Mickey could do was relax his throat and let himself be used. He didn’t care if it made him a bitch; he fucking loved it. Ian kept thrusting, again and again, until Mickey’s thighs were trembling and it felt like Ian’s grip on his hair was the only thing keeping him from toppling over.

“Fuck, Mickey,” gasped Ian. “I can’t. I’m gonna—”

Mickey hummed in encouragement, and Ian’s thrusts became erratic, his fingers tightening in Mickey’s hair. The pain shot from his scalp to his balls in some crazy feedback loop that had him whimpering with pleasure. In the same moment, Ian came down his throat, shuddering. Mickey drank it in, nursing at his softening cock until Ian finally pulled out, oversensitive, and collapsed on the bed.

“Hey,” said Mickey, shaking the cuffs and looking at Ian over his shoulder. Ian reached forward and fumbled with them until they fell open; they were so cheap he didn’t even need a key.

Mickey rubbed his wrists and rolled his shoulders, but his attention was on Ian, sprawled half-naked across the bed. In a second he was straddling him, pinning his wrists and rocking his neglected hard-on against Ian’s abs. Ian gave him a sloppy smile, his mouth lax and his eyes half-lidded and lazy. It was sexy as fuck.

Mickey grabbed handfuls of his shirt and yanked it open, the snaps popping like gunshots. He fixed his mouth on one pink nipple, sucking greedily while Ian arched under him. He moved on to the other one, then trailed sloppy kisses across Ian’s chest.

“Off,” mumbled Ian, pushing at Mickey’s t-shirt, and he obediently yanked it over his head and flung it onto the floor. Ian watched him with dark eyes and bit his swollen lip. “You’re so sexy, Mick,” he whispered.

Mickey couldn’t wait another second. He yanked open his zipper and pulled out his aching cock, which was red and angry at being ignored for so long. Ian pushed his hand aside, saying, “I wanna do it,” and wrapped his long fingers around it. His palm quickly became slick: Mickey’s cock was leaking copiously. Ian tugged him fast and rough, just how Mickey liked it. “Wanna watch you come,” said Ian thickly. “Like watching your face.”

With a deep groan, Mickey hurtled over the edge, his fingers digging into Ian’s pecs, probably leaving bruises (both he and Mickey bruised like a pair of peaches). Long lines of come shot across Ian’s chest and beaded on his white skin, to Mickey’s immense satisfaction. Ian stroked him through it, his eyes never leaving Mickey’s face.

Mickey collapsed, gasping, on top of Ian—who punched at him weakly until he’d rolled over and settled his head against his shoulder. He tucked his dick away in his boxers but couldn’t be bothered to do up his zipper or take his pants off altogether. With the last of his energy, he grabbed a corner of the navy blue shirt and used it to wipe his spunk off Ian’s chest.

“Now ’m gonna hafta wash it b’fore I give it back to Tad,” Ian protested sleepily.

“Pfft! What did he think you were borrowing it for?” said Mickey.

“Costume party.”

“Ha! Anyway, ’s what he gets for having a stupid name like Tad. Fuck’s sake.”

After a moment of quiet, Mickey said, “Hey.”

Ian grunted. He had almost been asleep. “What?”

“You don’t have to give it back right away, do you?”

* * *

Thankfully, things at the Alibi were back to normal the next day. Kev and V were passing the twins back and forth between serving drinks, and upstairs the girls had stopped giving Mickey crap—besides the usual _sotto voce_ Russian shit-talk, anyway. Svetlana came down to collect their cut of yesterday’s take, tucking it in her bra to parcel out later. As she turned to go back upstairs, Mickey said, “Hey, wait a sec.” He peeled a couple more bills off the stack. “Take the girls up a bottle of vodka, will ya? But don’t tell them it’s from me—say it’s from Kev or something. I don’t want them to think I’m going soft on ’em.”

“The girls are all already knowing you are soft as teddy bear,” said Svetlana drily.

“You want the booze or not?”

“Stolichnaya?” she asked hopefully.

Mickey scoffed. “Dream on!” Handing the money to Kev, he said, “Grab me a bottle of whatever’s cheapest.”

Svetlana spat and cursed him in Russian, but she didn’t hesitate to take the bottle back upstairs with her.

“That was nice of you,” said Kev.

Mickey shrugged. “Whatever.” If he felt a newfound sense of sympathy for his whores, he wasn’t about to admit it out loud. He downed the last of his beer and held his glass out to be refilled.

As he took the glass, Kev glanced down at Mickey’s wrist and raised his eyebrows. “Handcuffs?” he said.

Mickey froze. “What?”

“You shouldn’t use metal, you know. You can really hurt yourself.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” said Mickey, pulling down his sleeve and shooting a quick look around. The customers were all too far away to hear, and V was somewhere in the back with the twins.

“You should get the leather ones,” Kev was saying as he refilled the glass and passed it to Mickey. “They’re stronger _and_ safer. And they don’t leave marks. V got me a pair with lambswool on the inside—they feel _so_ good.”

“Whoa, Kev! T-M-fucking-I! Jesus. I’m gonna have to go bleach my brain now.”

“Well, now you know how I feel!” said Kev. “Ian’s like a little brother to me. It’s so weird to think of him pounding your ass.”

Mickey nearly choked on his beer. “Then don’t fucking think about it!”

“I can’t help it! Don’t you ever wonder how the people you know have sex?”

“No, I don’t!” said Mickey. “And if I do, I don’t fucking talk about it!”

“It’s not my fault,” said Kev sadly. “You know what having kids does to your sex life? It’s fatal, man. I’ve never been so sexually deprived in my life.”

“Dude, that is not my problem!”

Kev sighed and went to empty the dishwasher without further comment, thank God. In a few minutes, he was back. “Hey,” he said to Mickey thoughtfully, “what’s your opinion on anal douching?”

Mickey closed his eyes. “Jesus God, Kev, please shut up. I’m begging you.”

Kev looked genuinely surprised. “What are friends for if not to talk about this kind of stuff with?”

“We’re not friends anymore,” said Mickey. “I don’t even know you.”

“Uh-huh,” said Kev. “You gonna pay for that beer, then?”

Mickey buried his face in his hands so he didn’t have to look at Kev’s shit-eating grin. “Ugh. Fuck you.”

  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Mickey and Kev are my brOTP.


End file.
